


Where There's A Key

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can’t keep his mouth shut in bed. And Sam’s a wee bit too pleased about that, as far as Dean's concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where There's A Key

**Author's Note:**

> Pure cracky silliness inspired by a lovely anon who graced me with some hot, unexpected Wincest over on my tumblr.

_Dean Winchester is a screamer_.

It's scribbled there in Sharpie, right next to the bathroom mirror, below the "Jesus Saves" and the obligatory drawing of a dick.

It takes Dean all of 30 seconds to rinse his hands, assault the paper towel dispenser, and storm back out into the cafe. He makes a beeline for the moose and just stands there, glowering, until Sam deigns to notice the rage.

Even then, his eyes barely flick up from the screen. He doesn't even stop typing.

"Dude," he says, like he's the one with the right to be pissed. "What's your problem?"

"You, asshole," Dean hisses, and kicks Sam's chair as hard as he can. Doesn't even stick around to bask in the squawk he's earned. Just stomps out and throws himself into the front seat.

Steaming.

Because that? Is bullshit.

**

The drive back to that night's casa is quiet, Dean white-knuckling the wheel and Sam kicked back in the seat, relaxed.

Which just ratchets up the pissy inside Dean's head.

They're two streets away from scratchy sheets and moth-eaten curtains when Dean growls:

"I am _not_ a screamer, Sam."

Sam snorts and oh, Dean can just feel the goddamn smug.

"Sure. You're a fucking ninja in bed."

Dean shoots him a look and the bastard is all teeth.

"Whatever, dickweed. Put your delusions of grandeur away."

"So, Pensacola?" Sam drawls. "When those people called the cops because they thought you were being murdered?"

"Pffft," Dean scoffs. "Grannies with oversensitive hearing."

"Uh huh. And that time in Dayton? When the manager broke down the door?"

"Dude, that guy was a perv. He was looking for an excuse to see me naked."

"Riiiight. So last week, when those frat boys hung a ball gag on our doorknob, that didn't tell you that--?"

Dean whips her into a parking spot and flings open the door.

"You're full of shit, dude," he barks, putting his finger in Sam's face. Ignoring the bloom in his own. "You're the one who can't keep his fucking mouth shut."

He slams the door and does the walk of the righteous straight to #10, but.

Sam has the goddamn key.

Sasquatch makes a big show of taking his sweet time. Winds himself out of the seat like he's been there for hours, stretching and yawning and looking Dean right in the eye while he does it.

Dick.

There are a lot of things that Sam is to Dean, a lot of things that Dean's ok with most of the time.

But he doesn't like the notion that he's weak. That he's the one who gets broken, whose control gets splattered over the bedspread whenever Sam touches him just so, when he stretches out over Dean's back and gives up these short shallow thrusts that make Dean writhe, make him shake deep down and drive back for more.

Make him plead, oh.

Make him groan, yes.

Make him scream, though? Hell no.

Sam moseys over, finally, dangling the key in Dean's face, and they're in.

Lights, door, lock, and Dean's ego snaps.

He spins and knocks Sam against the wall, pretends he could hold him there if he wanted.

Which even he knows is a lie.

And even though he's the one plastered to the wallpaper, Sam looks so fucking pleased with himself that it makes Dean want to scream, which is counterpoint to the exercise, so he kisses him instead.

Sam goes with it, rolls his head to the side and catches Dean in his arms. They sway like needles in a haystack, working their way in, threading the other in and out of the eye.

Dean does that thing with his tongue that he knows Sam loves, quick over his lips and a slow roll around his mouth. Earns a little sigh in return and that's enough to remind him what his goal is here.

To show Sam which one of them's the boss.

Who's older and wiser and has forgotten more about sex than Sam will ever know, damn it.

And yeah, maybe he's usually the one getting fucked, but that has nothing to do with it, not really, and maybe that's something Sam's gotta be taught.

He falls away just so and smirks up into hazy brown eyes.

"I hope you're not planning on talking much tomorrow," he says. Rolls his hips into Sam's thigh and watches the puppy flutter.

"Really? Why's that?"

"'Cause you're gonna scream yourself hoarse tonight, baby," Dean rasps, pushing the promise off his tongue.

Sam rolls his eyes and laughs. Laughs! Pats Dean on the head like he's a freaking duck or something.

"Uh huh," he clucks. "Good luck with that."

"You saying I can't?"

"I'm saying you _won't_."

"Fifty bucks says I will," Dean says, reaching for Sam's fly.

"Make it fifty bucks and laundry for a week and you got a deal," Sam breezes, like Dean's fingers aren't an inch away from his cock.

Bastard.

"Fine," Dean grits. He digs at the goddamn zipper, his fingers like big meaty blocks.

"Fine," Sam says. "You want a hand with that?" And he's smirking like such a little bitch that Dean can hear it in his voice, and ok, if that's how he wants to play it. Fine.

He takes a step back and leaves Sam hanging next to some really terrible motel art.

"Sure," he says. "Take it all off and get on the bed."

Sam reaches for his coat and he's officially the only person that Dean's ever seen snicker his way through a striptease.

Yeah. Dean's got his work cut out for him.


End file.
